by Ruby Jackson
An investigation into the accident was undertaken and Rose was not held culpable. Instead she was congratulated for her professional handling of the incident. A lecture was given on dealing with a blow-out. Attendance was mandatory.
Together with their senior officers, the American platoon that had rescued the unit in such difficult circumstances was invited to visit the camp on the first Sunday after the ATS women’s horrifying experience in an out-of-control truck. It was only then that one or two of the girls had realised that some of the American soldiers were black.
For a few hours, between being good hosts and showing the Americans over the station, the women talked of nothing but military matters, US versus British transport vehicles – the Americans seemed to call everything a vehicle whether it was a car, an ambulance, a small lorry or a massive truck – and the progress of the war in every far-flung corner of the world. But when the visit was over, Gladys’s unit gathered in her hut, made tea and talked about men: black, white and everything in between.
‘Why, Corporal, why didn’t I notice that the chap who carried me up the slope was black?’
‘Because it didn’t matter, I suppose, Jean,’ answered Gladys, who was feeling just a little out of her depth. ‘You were in shock and were aware only of broad shoulders and big, strong arms,’ she finished rather suggestively.
The girl laughed. ‘He would have to be strong to lift me. I never met anyone black before, never even saw a black person, except in films. Paul Robeson, wonderful. It was so dark, so scary, that all I knew was that whoever was carrying me was strong and wasn’t going to drop me in the ha-ha thing.’
‘That would have been a ha-ha moment, Jean.’ Rose, who had to admit to herself that she had noticed no one but Sergeant Hastings and the audacious but likable Private Arvizo, tried to lighten the discussion.
‘Didn’t he have the loveliest voice?’ Jean finished in a flush of embarrassment. ‘Paul Robeson, I mean. Sanders of the River.’
‘Released 1935,’ said Rose, who had watched the film several times in the projection booth at her local cinema, ‘which means those of us outside London didn’t see it until the following year. I think a new one came out last year, Tales of New York, or was it Manhattan? We’ll get it in the summer, I suppose.’
‘I hope I said thank you.’
‘Have one of Fran’s mum’s sugarless, butterless biscuits,’ suggested Gladys, who was unsure if Jean wanted to thank the American singer or the soldier who had carried her to safety. She supposed it was the latter.
They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. When it was opened a letter was handed in. ‘For Lance Corporal Petrie,’ said Mildred who, having been closest to the door, had received the letter. She held the envelope up and looked at it very carefully.
‘Now, who could this be from? Could it be from a big, tall, absolutely gorgeous master sergeant with wavy brown hair?’
‘Stop being so silly, Private,’ said Rose crossly as she took the letter. She had spoken to Bradley Hastings earlier.
‘Call me Brad,’ he had said as they’d walked around the ATS camp, and a small frisson of excitement had trilled through her. She had felt slightly off balance, but she had pulled herself together, and thanked the American sergeant and his platoon for their help. She hadn’t the slightest intention of telling him that he had a lovely voice, although he did.
No, it’s not, she told herself. It’s just different.
She looked at the envelope and did not recognise the handwriting, but that meant nothing. Notes were carried across the camp every day of the week. ‘Possibly from Warrant Officer Starling. I’ll have a quick look at it.’
Mildred and probably one or two of the others were disappointed to see Rose grabbing her Teddy Bear coat and going outside. ‘It is from him. Lucky girl.’
‘None of our business, Mildred,’ Gladys reminded her, ‘and it’s high time we tidied up in here and got ready for supper.’
The young women did as she asked but Gladys could sense that each and every one was glancing at the door every few minutes, waiting for Rose to return. They waited in vain.
Rose was sitting in the camp’s nondenominational chapel, the only place she could think of where no one would speak to her. The note was from Brad Hastings and was a polite invitation to something called ‘a hop’ on the following Saturday evening. He explained that a general invitation would be sent to the camp commander, but he hoped that Rose would allow him to pick her up and return her to camp.
A hop? That’s dancing. Very nice. I’d love to go with him, but what on earth will I wear?
Rose had meant to spend some time wandering through the Dartford shops at Christmas. How lovely not to have to rush; what fun to return to favourite haunts, perhaps to bump into old friends, to see what was available, hoping there would be a dress, or even a blouse, that just had to be bought. Flora had refused the offer of her coupons for George, saying that he had everything he needed, and so Daisy and Rose had clubbed together to buy their foster brother his first watch, putting aside personal shopping until later. ‘Later’ never came, for family excitement over the unexpected Christmas Day announcement of not one but two engagements had made everything else unimportant.
The Brewers, missing Sally, had joined the Petries on Christmas Day, and even Miss Partridge had been persuaded to visit them. Daisy had come to the Christmas dinner table wearing an exquisite ruby ring and Grace had happily shown her lovely, but much more modest, diamond. No plans had been made for wedding dates but the young couples were blissfully happy and smiled constantly as they accepted congratulations.
‘We don’t even know whether Tomas’s family gets our letters,’ said Daisy bravely.
‘I would marry Grace tomorrow,’ said Sam, ‘but we’ll wait until the world is a better place.’
Daisy and Tomas had gone their separate ways on Boxing Day, and Sam had had to leave a day later. Rose had so longed to have an hour or two with her sister and Grace; better still if Sally were there, but nothing had worked out. Instead Rose and Grace had muffled up and gone for a walk. Rose had told Grace all about her friends in the ATS and Grace had told Rose about Eva and Katia, the two Polish refugees who were with her at Whitefields Court, and about her experiences, good and bad, in finding out about her family.
‘They, the law firm, are still trying to find out about my father, but it’s not easy after all these years and with all the papers destroyed in air raids. But I’ve got a bank account, Rose, with money from my grandmother. Sam knows about it and he agrees with my plan for it. We’ll tell everyone when it’s time.’
‘Sounds mysterious and exciting, Grace, and I’ll wait. C’mon. Let’s get back. I’m freezing.’
Next day Grace and Rose travelled together to London, where Rose waited for her train to York and a very nervous Grace made her way to Lord Whitefields’ London home. Lady Alice was waiting there to drive the three Land Girls back to Whitefields Court.
It had been a Christmas to remember, and Rose knew she would relive the happy moments over and over again in the months to come, but she had not restocked her wardrobe and now had nothing to wear for her date with Brad Hastings.
TWELVE
Rose was not the only ATS member who had had a lovely Christmas.
On New Year’s Eve, Warrant Officer Harry (Enrico) Starling had plucked up courage to ask the question that, for several years, he had hinted at and dreamed of asking.
‘Chiara, will you marry me?’
On their first day back in camp the women had shared their experiences. Gladys had had a lovely time with Mildred and her sister, Rose had the engagements of her sister and brother to talk about, but Francesca had told Rose, and no one else, of her mother’s engagement to WO Starling.
‘They plan to marry sometime this year, Rose, but Mamma feels it’s too soon after Nonno’s death to announce it. To be honest, I think the Italian community has almost given up hope of her ever marrying again.’
‘
I think you’d have to be blind not to see they love each other.’
Francesca laughed. ‘Exactly. At Midnight Mass, more than one whispered, “Nice to see your dear mamma looking so happy, Francesca.” They’re probably planning the menu for the wedding breakfast.’
‘And the clothes.’
The women in Rose’s platoon were thrilled to be invited to the dance at the American base and, of course, several begged for time off to shop. Every sewing machine in the camp was commandeered, as those with clever fingers altered out-of-date frocks.
Neither Rose nor Francesca felt that she owned an outfit worthy of the ‘hop’.
‘Everything I owned went up in smoke,’ said Francesca ruefully. ‘Replacing clothes was the last thing on my mind.’
‘Almost everything I own is in Dartford – and much good they’ll do either of us.’
They mulled over the problem for some time, but no solution presented itself and then, on Thursday morning, Francesca received a letter from her mother. She read it, becoming more and more excited with every word.
‘What is it?’
‘St Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases.’
Rose looked at her friend. ‘You’ve lost me. St Jude?’
‘Yes, lovely, lovely St Jude. I said a prayer and Mamma has written…’
‘You are so superstitious, Francesca.’
‘You won’t laugh, amica mia, if something suits you. Mamma went shopping for clothes, as befits a newly engaged woman. Being a desperately poor newly engaged woman, she went to a charity shop run by the WVS.’
‘You mean…?’
‘She filled a suitcase, maybe a little too full – sales do that to her – and so she wants to see if we can use anything. If we went in before seven on Saturday morning, we could have a quick look and be back…I’m on duty at ten.’ She looked enquiringly at Rose.
‘Twelve till three.’
‘Might just work out. Even if nothing’s perfect, too long, too big, it’s got to be better than an old blouse and skirt.’
‘I did bring a navy shirtwaist for the spring,’ confessed Rose.
‘Good. It’ll be perfect for lunch with Brad some Sunday. I’ll ask my stepfather-to-be to let Mamma know we’re coming.’
‘Thanks, Francesca, I have to run.’
Rose checked that her uniform was perfect and hurried up to the depot where she had been working on the engine of a Bedford semi-trailer. She stood beside the workbench, her sleeves rolled up, her hair bound in a turban in an attempt to keep it free of oil, dirt and rust. Her hands were filthy and, catching a glimpse of her nails, she sighed.
‘In the office, Petrie, now.’
Rose straightened up, wiped her oily hands on a filthy rag and followed WO Starling into his office, wondering, as she did so, what could possibly have happened. At work Starling was the consummate professional and very rarely showed ill-temper.
‘Sir?’
‘God, you’re a mess, but you’re the best I’ve got. I want you to go and get yourself cleaned up and, in your uniform, back here in thirty minutes. What are you waiting for? Move.’
‘Sir.’
Twenty-three minutes later, Rose, breathing quick, shallow breaths, was back in the depot.
‘Give or take a minute, Rose,’ Starling said with a laugh. ‘Right, there’s a job waiting for you at the airport. Sign out the van that’s just outside; it has fuel. Take yourself off to the airport. A car and one or two passengers will be there within the hour. Take them to this address, wait for them, and drive them back to the airport. Get back here when you can.’
Her heart leaped with excitement. She was actually going to drive a VIP or perhaps two of them.
‘You can stop grinning, Lance Corporal, and I hope someone thinks to offer you something to eat.’
Eat? How trivial, how mundane.
Rose lowered herself into the driver’s seat of the van, closed the door and yelled, ‘I am a driver!’
Then, feeling rather silly and hoping no one had seen or heard her, she drove off.
Her journey to the airport was uneventful. Snow still lay on the hedges and on the fields on either side, but the road itself was clear. She reported in, was told her passengers were delayed, and was invited to make herself familiar with the car she would be driving.
‘Beauty like you should have a Rolls, love. Afraid all we’ve got today’s an elderly Austin, but it’ll get them there.’
Rose smiled ruefully and thanked the mechanic, who suggested she ‘grab a cuppa char’ while she had the chance.
By the time she was alerted to the arrival of her passengers, she could have had a three-course lunch, but ‘There’s a war on’, singing in her head, helped her remain patient. She was surprised and thrilled to find that another car had been found to replace the elderly one she had been promised, and it exceeded all her expectations. It was a four-door Daimler all-weather tourer, and not even two years old.
‘Take it right up to the strip. Fewer people who know who comes and goes the better.’
Rose saluted and, her heart beating so strongly with excitement that she felt everyone on the airfield must hear it, she gently released the brake and allowed the beautiful machine to purr gently forwards. She got out so as to be on hand to open the rear door for her passenger or passengers, and, one hand on the door, she stood and watched a small dot of silver light in the sky become larger and larger, until she could not only hear but see the small plane.
Her stomach lurched at the thought that maybe, just maybe, Daisy was the pilot.
‘Gosh, it’s lovely. What’s it called?’ she asked the engineer, who was waiting beside her.
‘Percival Petrel: pretty little girl, isn’t she? Carries passengers, cargo, you name it. Today it’s top brass. One – and a secretary, or maybe bodyguard. Got a long drive ahead of you, have you?’
Rose laughed. ‘Now, even if I know, you don’t really expect me to tell you. Here they come.’
Rose stood to attention and saluted. Two men, one tall and slim and the other shorter and even thinner, approached the car. Rose held the door open and the tall slim man nodded to her and eased himself into the car, while his companion went round to the other side and let himself in.
Rose had memorised her instructions, and so she started the engine immediately and drove somewhat slowly until she reached the main road. Then she accelerated and drove confidently, the powerful machine obeying her slightest command. She heard nothing from her passengers. There was a speaking tube; should her VIP need to talk to her, he could.
She drove steadily, luxuriating in the feeling of being in charge of this car, of finding it responsive to every move she made.
What price Dad’s van now?
She allowed herself to wonder about her passengers. Who were they and in what way were they important to the war effort? She would never know and did not really care. It was enough to know that they were helping bring an end to this senseless conflict, and that she, Lance Corporal Rose Petrie, was helping them.
She came to a crossroads, which of course had no directions on its pointing arms, and suffered a momentary loss of memory. Right, left, straight ahead?
‘Straight ahead,’ said a voice.
‘Thank you, sir.’
She had heard that voice before. Where? On the wireless? After all, how many truly important people had she met in her life?
She drove on, determined not to put a foot wrong and, at last, there they were. Great gates held open by uniformed soldiers, a long winding driveway flanked by dense bushes, a massive house.
She drew up at the foot of a flight of stone steps and got out, but already there was a soldier at the passenger door. Rose’s passengers got out, nodded to Rose and began to walk up the stairs.
The taller one stopped, turned. ‘I thought I’d seen you before. Glad the ATS got you, Miss Petrie.’ With a smile he turned, climbed the rest of the stairs and disappeared into the house.
Rose stared after them. ‘
The butler from Silvertides,’ she murmured to herself.
Her instructions were to wait for her passengers and so she got back into the car. It was freezing cold outside and she had no overcoat with her. She peered through the frosting window. How she would have loved to walk around, just following the driveway, but she was not a casual visitor. She settled herself, as best she could, into her seat.
‘They’ll be a few hours, love.’ One of the soldiers had opened her door. ‘You’ll be better off in the kitchen. Cook’ll give you a bite to eat and, don’t worry, you’ll be told in plenty of time when they’re moving.’
He showed Rose where the steps were that led to the kitchens in the basement. There Rose was met by a delightful wall of heat, accompanied by the delicious smell of roasting beef.
‘Help yourself to a cup of coffee, pet. Milk and sugar’s on the table. Upstairs they like brown with their coffee, but there’s both.’
‘Thank you.’
The cook was swathed in a massive white apron, from the bottom of which peeped military trousers and military boots. Rose smiled. Because of the apron and the cook’s hat, she had not been sure whether she was talking to a man or a woman. A man, definitely.
He went about a myriad of tasks with clinical efficiency and Rose drank delicious coffee and watched him.
‘You staying over, lass? These meetings can last an hour or they can go on for days.’
‘I’m supposed to drive my passengers back to the airport.’
‘Well, if you need a kip, there’s at least thirty bedrooms with empty beds.’ He laughed uproariously at this and Rose sat, enjoying the coffee and the warmth, and assured herself that if there had been any doubt that she was not returning to camp she would have been told to pack.
Some time later, after the men upstairs had had a meal, Rose and the cook enjoyed the leftovers.
‘That really was outstanding, Cook. My mum’s a good cook and some army meals aren’t too bad at all, but I’ve never eaten anything like that before.’
He laughed. ‘I was training at a posh place in London when my call-up came. When this blooming war is over, they say I’ll get my job back, but I have plans of my own. Ever in London?’
